


All I Want From You

by justkisa



Series: Every Tomorrow [1]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-28
Updated: 2014-09-28
Packaged: 2018-02-19 04:30:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2374625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justkisa/pseuds/justkisa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The morning after he hooks up with Stevan, Matija thinks they’ve started something, changed things, but he’s gotten his timing all wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All I Want From You

**Author's Note:**

> 1) penny_jordan made some very lovely art to accompany this story which you can see [here](http://futbal-minibang.livejournal.com/9130.html) at the beginning and end of the story.
> 
> 2) When I was writing this story, it seemed almost certain that Nastasić would leave City during the transfer window. He ended up staying but the story is set during the time when it was assumed he’d leave. 
> 
> 3) Thank you to the lovely JudgesDaughter for the beta.
> 
> 4) Available in Chinese [here.](http://electricprunes.lofter.com/post/1cf79eeb_5fa6c04)

When Matija wakes up, he’s alone in bed and his head is pounding. He stares at the ceiling for a moment then flops over onto his stomach and buries his face in the pillows. He remembers sliding into sleep, sated, with the taste of Stevan lingering on the back of his tongue like a promise. Now there’s an acrid bitterness stuck, tacky and unpleasant, to his teeth and his tongue. The pillows smell like Stevan, the familiar combination of his cologne and hair gel, but Stevan’s gone. He turns his head.

Stevan’s standing in the doorway of the bedroom, leaning against the doorframe. Matija closes his eyes. He feels hazy and slow and the pounding in his head makes it hard to think. He opens his eyes. Stevan’s still there. His stomach lurches and he feels almost sick with relief or, maybe, it’s the aftereffects of last night’s drinking. He can’t quite tell. But Stevan’s still there, still with him, that’s the important thing

“Hey,” Stevan says. He’s dressed. He’s wearing his jeans, unbuttoned, and the hoodie Matija wore yesterday. His hair is mussed and going frizzy at the ends. He’s holding two mugs, the fancy matching ones Matija’s mother bought for him, the ones he never uses. Matija can smell coffee. 

“Hey,” Matija says. It comes out scraped and breathy. He swallows. His tongue sticks to his teeth and the acrid taste in his mouth slides unpleasantly down his throat. He pushes himself up a little. “You’re still here,” he says. 

Stevan frowns a little and looks down at the floor. “I’m not the one—“ He starts, then stops. He looks back up and says, “Where else would I be?”

“I thought, maybe…” Matija flops over onto his back. The pain in his head spikes. It reverberates in his temples and makes his stomach roll unpleasantly. He closes his eyes for a moment and breathes slowly through his mouth until everything settles again. He opens his eyes. “I don’t know,” he says, staring up at the ceiling, “I—I thought you left.”

“Do,” Stevan says, and Matija turns his head so he can look at him, “uh, do you want me to leave?” There’s a careful wariness in his voice which Matija’s not sure he likes. 

Matija doesn’t want him to leave. It’s the only thing he’s completely sure of right now. “No,” he says, pushing up onto his elbows. He grits his teeth when his head pounds and tries for a smile. “I, uh,” he says, ”I think I want coffee.” He’s not really sure he does but Stevan made it for him. He didn’t leave. He made Matija coffee and brought it to him in bed and Matija doesn’t want to turn it down.

Stevan raises his eyebrows. “Really?” he says, “Because you look…” He trails off.

“I do,” Matija says, pushing up a little more, “I—I’m, I’ll be okay.” 

Stevan smiles a little. “Right, okay. Sit up then.”

Sitting up makes the pounding in his head speed up into a quick-fire, punishing rhythm and he has to close his eyes for a second and breathe slowly until it recedes to a dull thudding. 

When he opens his eyes, Stevan’s standing by the bed. He leans over Matija and holds out one of the mugs. Matija looks up at him. His mouth is open - wet - like he’s just licked his lips. He stares at Stevan’s mouth and thinks, _he’d kissed Stevan_ , or, maybe, Stevan’d kissed him. He can’t remember. All he can remember is the frantic, hard press of Stevan’s mouth against his and the sting of Stevan’s fingernails digging into his scalp. He thinks, for a moment, that Stevan’s going to kiss him again right now but he just says, “Here,” and hands Matija the mug. 

When he takes the mug, his fingers nudge against Stevan’s and he realizes, he’d really wanted Stevan to kiss him. Stevan smiles and says, “Careful, it’s hot,” but Matija’s’s still thinking about Stevan kissing him and he takes a sip. The coffee’s sweet, too sweet, and so hot it scalds his tongue. He winces then swallows. The coffee burns the roof of his mouth and the taste of it makes him feel a bit sick. Stevan laughs a little and says, “I told you it was hot.” 

“Shut up,” he says, then, “I think this one is yours.” 

Stevan takes a sip from the mug he’s holding. He wrinkles his nose. “Think you’re right.” He holds out the mug. “Here.” They swap mugs. Matija cradles his mug and stares down into it. It’s almost too hot to hold. 

Stevan perches on the edge of the bed. Matija fiddles with the blankets. He’s naked. It didn’t seem important before but now, with Stevan sitting so close, it feels awkward. He doesn’t know how he feels about being naked near Stevan right now. He glances at Stevan. His hoodie fits Stevan well enough except for the sleeves. They’re a little too long and the cuffs brush against Stevan’s knuckles. “Hey,” he says, desperate for something to say, “isn’t that my hoodie?”

“Oh.” Stevan looks down, like he’s forgotten what he’s wearing. “Yeah. It was the first thing I found on the floor. Why? Do you want it back?” 

“I, uh..” He glances around the room. Their clothes and shoes are scattered everywhere. His eye catches on the bright plaid of the shirt Stevan wore yesterday. It’s hanging off the corner of the dresser. He remembers being frustrated with Stevan’s buttons because all he’d wanted was to get his hands on Stevan. There’d been so many buttons and he couldn’t get them open fast enough. He remembers clenching the fabric in his hands and pulling as hard as he could. He can’t remember exactly what happened after that. He wonders if he tore open Stevan’s shirt, he’d wanted to, he thinks. He wonders if Stevan’s buttons are scattered all over the floor. He wants to ask but he doesn’t know how to just blurt out, _did I rip your shirt open last night?_.

He remembers getting his hands on Stevan, though, remembers the feel of his skin, warm and smooth, under his palms. And he remembers the sound Stevan’d made, low and guttural, when he’d finally gotten his hands on him. That sound is seared into his skin. He’s always going to remember it, always going to carry it with him wherever he goes. 

“Well, Matija?” Stevan says, “Do you want it back?“ 

“Uh, no. No, it’s fine,” he says, all in a rush. He takes a sip of coffee and focuses on the way it burns his tongue instead of how it felt to put his hands on Stevan’s skin. 

“Are you sure?” Stevan says, swinging his legs up onto the bed, “You’re not cold, or anything?”

Matija thinks about it, about putting on his hoodie with it still warm from Stevan’s body. He takes another scalding sip of coffee. “No,” he says, “I’m fine.”

Stevan scoots closer. “So,” he says, “Do you want breakfast? We could go out or I could...”

Matija doesn’t really want to talk about breakfast, like it’s just another morning, like Stevan’d just fallen asleep on his sofa like he has so many times before, like they hadn’t… “Are we just--” he blurts, “I mean, last night we…” 

Stevan’s quiet for a long moment. Matija turns his mug in his hands and tries not to fidget. Then Stevan leans in and bumps his shoulder against Matija’s. “Yeah,” he says, “We did.” He sounds almost flippantly casual, but there’s an edge, sharp and rawly jagged, to his words. “So, breakfast?”

Matija doesn’t want to talk about breakfast. He wants— He doesn’t know what he wants. Stevan’s shoulder is pressed against his, warm and familiar, and Matija wants to lean into him, wants— He presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth, against the tender, burned skin just behind his teeth, and tries to find the words to answer. Stevan shifts away, leaves Matija cold, and Matija knows he’s taken too long. He tries to say something. He opens his mouth, but he can’t work his scalded tongue around the words, can’t think of the right ones.

“So,” Stevan says, his tone gone sharp and clipped, “I’m just—” He gets up off the bed so fast it rocks. Coffee sloshes over the rim of Matija’s mug and across his fingers, but Matija barely notices. He reaches out a hand to grab Stevan’s wrist, to pull him back, because he can’t just go, but Stevan’s already out of reach. 

Coffee drips off Matija’s outstretched fingers and stains the sheets. Matija wipes his hand on the pillowcase, and Stevan’s left his coffee behind. His mug teeters on the edge of the nightstand. Matija leans over and nudges it away from the edge. He puts his own mug down next to it. The taste of the coffee’s gone sour on his tongue and the few swallows he’d taken sit unpleasantly in his stomach. He sits there for a minute. The spilled coffee seeps through the sheets and they stick, lukewarm and damp, to his skin. 

He pushes the sheets aside and swings his legs over the side of the bed. They hadn’t cleaned up last night, had just gone to sleep tangled together, and his belly is smeared with dried come. He touches his fingertips to it and wonders if Stevan had cleaned up before he’d gotten dressed, or if he’s out in Matija’s kitchen, the traces of what they did last night still sticking to his skin under his clothes - under _Matija’s_ clothes. He doesn’t know how Stevan can do that, just go around like everything’s normal, make breakfast, with the evidence they just changed everything still stuck to his skin.

He stands up. The floor is cold and there’s something small and hard digging into his toe. He looks down. Stevan’s buttons are scattered all over the floor. He doesn’t remember that. He just has the sense memory of clutching Stevan’s shirt, of soft fabric against his palms. 

He picks his way across the floor, avoiding buttons and discarded clothes and shoes. One of his shoes is on its side, the heel in the bedroom and the toe in the bathroom. The laces are still half-tied. He remembers kicking it off, remembers he’d tried to take off his pants before his shoes, remembers Stevan lying on the bed laughing at him. It’s all in random, jangling flashes. The memories are vividly clear and saturated with color and emotion, but they don’t hang together, don’t come in any sensible order. 

He steps around his shoe and into the bathroom. The bathroom floor is even colder than the bedroom floor. He switches on the light and blinks, it’s too bright, too fast. He shuffles forward to the sink, turns on the water, cups some in his hands, and splashes his face. The cold water is a rude shock but he feels clearer after, like he can actually think. 

He turns off the water and lifts his head to stare at his reflection. There’s droplets of water caught in his eyelashes and sliding down his neck. He looks, he thinks, like he feels. There’s a mark, smudged and purpling, on his skin, just under his collarbone. He touches it, presses his fingertips against it. 

It doesn’t hurt, he thought it would, thought there’d be a twinge - an ache - something to call back the stinging scrape of Stevan’s teeth across his skin or the hard, wet suction of his mouth. He doesn’t know if he really remembers it, or just wants to, but he can see Stevan’s head bowed, the curve of his neck, hair damp with sweat and sticking at his nape. He thinks he can remember the weight of him on top of him, the way it felt to dig his nails into the skin of his shoulders - his back. He wants to go and look at Stevan’s skin, to see if he’d left his own marks behind, to make sure that what he remembers is real.

He drops his hand to his side. He turns on the shower, sets the water as hot as he can stand, and steps underneath the spray. He stays there until there’s nothing of last night left on his skin except that mark. It’s the shape of Stevan’s mouth. He traces his fingers around it and watches the water slide over it.

The hot water soothes away some of the pain in his head and, by the time he steps out of the shower, the pounding has dulled to a low thrumming. He dries off and makes his way back into the bedroom. He steps around all the discarded clothes and gets clean clothes out of the dresser. When he opens a drawer, Stevan’s shirt flutters to the floor. He leaves it where it falls and gets dressed. 

He picks the mugs of coffee up off the nightstand. They’ve gone cold. He takes a sip of coffee. It’s cool and too sweet to be his. He swirls the coffee in his mouth and lets the taste of it saturate his mouth. If Stevan had kissed him good morning, this is what he would’ve tasted like. He swallows the coffee and goes to find Stevan. 

As soon as he steps into the hall, he knows what Stevan’s making for breakfast. He can smell dough frying in oil, which can only mean palačinka. They’re not really meant for breakfast but Stevan loves them and he likes to make them when he’s upset. 

When he gets to the kitchen, Stevan’s standing at the counter sliding one out of the pan onto a plate. He must’ve been making them for while because there’s a whole stack on the plate. Matija didn’t think he’d spent that long in the shower but he must’ve.

Stevan puts the pan down and says, without looking at him, “You don’t have the right kind of sugar.” Matija’s kind of amazed he has all the ingredients for palačinka never mind the proper sugar. He hasn’t been to the store in awhile. Couldn’t see the point. 

“You shouldn’t be eating those for breakfast,” he says, because it’s easier than asking what’s wrong.

Stevan looks at him. “Well,” he says, “I asked you what you wanted but you…” He shrugs, just once, a quick, jabbing uplift of his shoulders and turns away. 

Matija steps forward until he’s right in front of the counter. He doesn’t know what to say. All he can think is that he wanted more than coffee earlier. He’d wanted a kiss good morning. He wants a kiss he can remember, not just the fractured, sharp bits of memory that keep spilling through his mind like shimmering shards of broken glass. 

He watches Stevan putter around his kitchen, wearing his clothes, and thinks, maybe, he wants nothing more than to see Stevan like this every morning. He doesn’t know how to say any of it, the words stick on his tongue, press against the roof of his mouth like something alive and squirming but he can’t spit them out. 

Stevan turns back around. He has a jar of jam in one hand and a spoon in the other. “Where’d you get that?” Matija says. He can’t remember ever buying jam. 

Stevan shrugs and gestures vaguely with the spoon. “It was in the cabinet.” He twists open the jar and starts spreading jam on the palačinka. It looks like apricot. Stevan’s favorite. Matija remembers, suddenly, when he must’ve bought it. It must’ve been right after Stevan came to Manchester, when he was still living in a hotel but spent all his time at Matija’s. Matija had bought all the things Stevan liked just to see Stevan smile. 

For a minute, he watches Stevan spread jam and roll the palačinka and lets himself pretend that this, Stevan, sleep-mussed, sleeves pushed carelessly up to his elbows, making breakfast in his kitchen, is something he can have, something he can _keep_. He puts the mugs down on the counter and lets the loud clatter of ceramic on marble jolt him back to reality. “You left your coffee,” he says. He nudges the mug he thinks is Stevan’s across the counter. 

Stevan looks up from the palačinka. “Oh,” he says, “Right.” He reaches out for the mug. He has jam smeared across his knuckles. 

“You have jam,” Matija says, touching his fingertips to Stevan’s knuckles, “here.” Stevan’s hand is warm and sticky with the jam.

“Aw, Matija,” Stevan says, jerking his hand away, “Why did you do that?” He sticks his knuckles in his mouth and licks away the jam. “Now you’ve got it on you.” 

Matija shrugs. Stevan shakes his head. He picks up his coffee mug and takes a sip. He makes a face. “Coffee’s cold.”

Matija licks the jam off his fingertips. The bright-tangy sweetness of it bursts over his tongue like a the shocking first sip of a too hot drink. “I could,” he says, and the jam sticks, sweet and slick, to the roof of his mouth, “make more?”

Stevan laughs a little. “No,” he says, as he rolls the last of the palačinka “No, Matijica, I’m not drinking your coffee. No fucking way.”

“Fuck you,” Matija says, but he’s smiling, because they’ve had this argument a hundred times, and the easy give and take of it’s so reassuringly familiar, “My coffee’s fine.” 

Stevan wrinkles his nose. “Your coffee,” he says, turning away and rummaging in the cutlery drawer, “is fucking terrible.” He comes back with two forks. He slides one across the counter towards Matija and uses the other to cut off a bite of palačinka. He shoves it in his mouth and says, while he chews, “Do you want some?”

Matija picks up the fork. Puts it down. “I—“ He thinks about how the palačinka would taste, warm and sticky with the cloying sweetness of the jam. He doesn’t think he could force down a single bite. He looks down at the fork. He runs his fingertip along the sharp ends of the tines.

“Matija?” Stevan says, his voice thick and muffled, like he’s still chewing. Matija looks up. Stevan gestures with his fork. “Well? Do you want some?” There’s a smear of jam at the corner of his mouth. 

Matija doesn’t. 

He wants, he doesn’t know what, but the wanting is like a tangled, clawing thing in his chest. He wants to reach over and clean the jam off Stevan’s face He wants to go around to the other side of the counter and push his hands up under Stevan’s - _his_ \- hoodie and find out if Stevan still has the traces of last night on his skin, find out if he left scratches on his skin. He wants to grab Stevan and shake him until an explanation of this, last night, this morning, what comes next, falls out. He wants to dig his fingers into his shoulders and never let him go. 

“I,” he says, “I want…” and he can’t get any further. 

Stevan puts down his fork. “Matija, what?”

Matija’s never going to know what to say so he stops trying. He leans over the counter and presses his mouth to Stevan’s. The fork clatters to the floor and the hard edge of the counter digs uncomfortably into his stomach. Stevan tastes sweet, like apricots and the sugar he puts in his coffee, and his mouth is sticky with jam. 

He doesn’t kiss Matija back. 

Matija rocks back. He has jam on his mouth. Stevan’s staring at him. “Matija,” Stevan says, “You—“

“I,” Matija interrupts, the words rushing out of him now, like the sticky-sweet taste of Stevan’s mouth was the key to unlock his words, the hammer blow to crack Matija open, “I want—“ 

Stevan cuts him off. “Matija,” he says, raw and desperate, “ _Matija_.”

Matija curls his hands around the edge of the counter and holds on as tightly as he can. “Stevan,” he says, “I wanted, I want—“

“Shut up,” Stevan says, “Don’t, just, don’t.” Matija closes his mouth. Stevan scrubs his hand over his face then runs it through his hair. “Last night,” he says. He isn’t looking at Matija. He’s looking down at the palačinka. He laughs a little. “You did the same thing last night, you—“ He shakes his head. “The same thing.” He fiddles with his fork and it clatters against the plate.

Matija tries to pull last night out of his memory. He does. Images slide through his head but they’re like water through his hands and he can’t hold onto them, can’t put them in the right order. He can remember, now, pressing Stevan against his front door, can remember that he’d kissed Stevan first. He can remember the heat of his body, the smell of him, the _taste_ of him. But he doesn’t remember what he said, how they got there. He can remember wanting to have more of Stevan, can remember wanting to grab for as much of him as he could while he’ll still had the chance. But he doesn’t know if he said that to Stevan or if he just— 

“Last night,” he says, “You kissed me back. You—” Stevan had, he’d kissed him, had put his mouth all over him. He touches the place where Stevan left his mark on him and thinks about the scrape of Stevan’s teeth across his skin. 

Stevan looks up. “Yeah,” he says. He smiles and it’s the same smile Matija sees every time Stevan says, _don’t worry, I’ll be back playing soon_. Matija flinches. Stevan stares straight at him. “Yeah,” Stevan says, “I did.”

Matija doesn’t understand the difference between this morning and last night. “So,” Matija says, “Why not—“ 

“We shouldn’t have,” Stevan says. He runs his fingers through his hair, tugs on it. “ _I_ shouldn’t have.”

“Then why did you?” Matija says. 

“I just—“ Stevan looks away. “I wanted—“ 

“What?” Matija says because if Stevan wants and he wants then they should while they still can. 

Stevan looks back at him. “It doesn’t matter,” he says, “We shouldn’t.”

“Why not?” Matija says. He knows why. But he wants more of Stevan now - now that he knows what it’s like to kiss him, now that he knows the feel of his body pressed against his own - not less. He wants to take as much as he can for as long as he can.

“Matija,” Stevan says, his voice quiet and flat, “You know why.” 

It’s Matija’s turn to look away. He lets go of the counter. He folds his arms across his chest and tucks his hands under his arms. “Yeah,” he says, “I do.” He wants to go back to bed, curl up under his blankets and bury his face in his pillows. They probably still smell like Stevan. He looks back at Stevan. “I just, I wanted—“ And everything he wanted - _wants_ \- is too big to put into words and it’s choking him, the wanting and the knowing he can’t have any of it. “Stevan, _Stevan_ I—“

Stevan comes around the counter. Matija turns toward him. Stevan reaches out and rubs his thumb across Matija’s mouth, cleaning away the jam. “Me too,” he says. He licks the jam off his thumb then presses a kiss to the corner of Matija’s mouth. “Me too.”

Matija turns his head and kisses him. His mouth is open and Matija pushes right inside. This time Stevan kisses him back, open and sloppily desperate, until Matija can’t breathe. They pull apart. Matija presses his forehead to Stevan’s and breathes against his mouth, breathes in as Stevan breathes out. “Can’t we just,” he says, “Stevan, please.” 

Stevan brushes his knuckles along Matija’s cheek. “It’s better if we don’t.” Matija can’t see how. He wants to say just that but Stevan tucks his knuckles under Matija’s chin, tips his head up, and kisses him, slow and sweet, so Matija keeps his mouth shut and takes the kiss. 

Stevan steps back. Matija sways forward, towards him, like a compass seeking true north. Stevan straightens up and squares his shoulders. “I’m going to take a shower,” he says, “then we’ll go out and I’ll buy you a proper breakfast, okay?” He’s using the tone of voice that always reminds Matija that Stevan’s been a captain, _is_ a captain, the one that broaches no arguments. 

“And then?” Matija says, stepping forward, because Stevan isn’t _his_ captain, he doesn’t have to just go along with whatever Stevan decides. 

Stevan shrugs. “And then I’m going home.” He looks away. “And you—you’ll…” 

Matija steps closer, until his toes are brushing Stevan’s. Stevan doesn’t look at him. “I haven’t yet,” he says, “Stevan, I’m still here, I’m—“ He skims his fingers along Stevan’s knuckles. “Can’t we just…”

Stevan pulls his hand away. He’s never pulled away from Matija before. Never. From the moment when they were first introduced, Stevan’s always been in Matija’s space, always been touching him, always been inviting Matija’s touch in return. Matija steps back. 

Stevan looks straight at him. “No,” he says, hard and sharp, “I—I can’t.” Matija takes another step back. They stand there, for a moment, just staring at each other. Then Stevan says, softer now and so gentle Matija wants to punch him, “It’ll be okay, Matija.” 

Matija doesn’t see how. He wants to keep arguing but he can’t win an argument Stevan won’t even have. “Go take your shower,” he says. 

Stevan goes. 

Matija leans against the counter and stares at the abandoned palačinka. He reaches out and pulls the plate across the counter. He picks up Stevan’s fork and takes a bite, then another and another, and doesn’t think about anything but the sweetness of the jam on his tongue.


End file.
